I probably will not ever return

to the place where five rivers meet

and that may mean I will not see your face

again, other than through the odd text,

or family updated picture, or should you travel

north to see me; when your life is complex

and comfortable, why would you waste time

leaving the valley in which we once roamed.

 

The rivers roll on with majesty

and I have sat by many a bank,

the tumble down grass, tumbled down upon

as I think of the women it has been my honour

in which to idle by, as I think of friends in their prime

to whom I am now but a shade, an image

of times relentless march

and whilst I miss them dearly,

the dark heart that sits frozen in time

on the Market Square makes me feel ill

at ever returning, the edifice that strolls

over all with consumptive ease, the lie at the centre

of age old Government and the man with oily

hands and fermenting shake,

I shall not return,

unless it is to say goodbye.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016